This could make a mediocre book

A little less medicated

Once upon a time I thought I was crazy. Then (like 5 years ago) I saw a therapist and realized that my boss at the time was the crazy one and if I WASN’T letting that little devil (seriously, she is really short and is the devil incarnate) bother me then yes, I had some problems. Oh, and I’d had an underlying chemical imbalance for pretty much my entire life that made things that much harder.

Good news: I was still crazy, but not because of what I thought or as bad as I thought.

Let me say here that everyone is a little crazy, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Because there are people that love you for and in spite of it and if you haven’t found them you’re doing it wrong.

Anyways, so I found out my chemicals were off. And after a few months of excessive amounts of talking to a professional in these sorts of things, we came up with a plan. I’d continue to see her to talk about how to cope with the feelings I’d get about how everything sucked and I wasn’t good enough and other peoples’ bad moods were because of me, but also we’d try a little bit of medication, just to see.

And it worked alright at first, and then it didn’t. There were still days I didn’t want to get out of bed (too many of them, in fact) and though I had every reason in the world to be happy, I was nowhere close.

What they sometimes don’t mention – at least I didn’t know about it – about depression is that it can get worse before it gets better. And it did. Both. It got worse, and we upped the meds and then it got better.

Part of that I credit to the medication. It balanced me out, knocked me upright again, pretty much got rid of any and all depression I was having (even though it still lurks there from time to time, its much quieter and doesn’t visit nearly as often anymore) and moved me right on into anxiety.

Ohhhhh, anxiety. That nasty bitch. It’s been harder to shake than the depression was, but we’re working on it. And by we, I don’t mean me and the other personalities or voices in my head (I said crazy, but not like, real crazy, y’all). I mean me and my therapist, a new one I’ve had for a couple years now. She’s amazing and wonderful and done so much for me and I found her through the Internet and I highly recommend she be everyone’s therapist. That’s how much I love her. And with her help and all I’ve learned from my time with her, I felt good enough to make a decision about the future of my mental health.

I’m working my way off the meds.

I saw my physician last month, and decided to cut the dosage of the antidepressant I take in half, slowly, hopefully, weaning myself off of it completely before the end of this year.

It wasn’t a quick decision, or one I came to lightly. In fact, I was anxious. Anxious about giving up the medicine that helps you deal with anxiety. There’s a joke in there somewhere.

But I’m in an entirely different place than I was back then – when I started to get help for these feelings I’d had forever. Then I didn’t know that it was OK to be sad and anxious and it may not be my fault at all. I might just be wired that way.

I don’t credit medication for getting me here – it just made the trip a little easier.

But these days I am happier, more relaxed, less worrisome about trivial things that would have knocked me on my ass five years ago. And I’m more confident in myself and my ability to handle things that I thought this plan – this slowly working my way off of chemical help – was worth a shot.

Funny enough, the last day of my former dosage? Was the day I made an offer on a condo, that I then didn’t end up getting. Yeah it sucked, but I’m surprisingly fine. And I’ll be fine. And soon, hopefully, medication free.